Robert Rorabeck

Bronze Star - 2,238 Points (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

The End Of The Page - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They seem to be calling me home:
And isn't it astonishing that this is what they do,
To make love like
Tigers face to face underneath the fences and the
Ferris Wheels
While my blood permutated with rum until
I am a foe of baseball
Cast aside underneath the swing sets the other
Ways busied by the makings of love:
This, end to end, is my own estuary—
Mouthed my the tadpoles who haven't yet
Dreamed of stewardesses: this is what it means to
Her, coming up, dancing in the kindergarten
Mouths of the fire—growing like a weed
Or her own instrument: maybe she will remember
Nothing, or
Maybe she will have to learn to kiss so
Many mouths just to make it to the end of the page.

Listen to this poem:

Comments about The End Of The Page by Robert Rorabeck

There is no comment submitted by members..

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Poem Submitted: Sunday, April 15, 2012

[Report Error]